Mourn not your Dead

The reporters are coming here—” Her gaze fixed on Kincaid, the quick color drained from her face and she crumpled upon the white tiles.
     

Four
     
    FOR A LARGE MAN, WILL DARLING MOVED WITH SURPRISING swiftness. He managed to reach Claire before her head made contact with the floor, and now knelt beside her, supporting her head and shoulders against his knees. As Gemma and Kincaid hovered over them anxiously, her eyelids fluttered open and she moved her head restlessly. “I’m sorry,” she said as she focused on their faces. “I’m sorry. I can’t think what happened.”
    She struggled to sit up, but Will restrained her gently. “Keep your head down a bit longer. Just relax, now. Still feel woozy?” When she shook her head, he raised her a few inches. “We’ll do it a little at a time,” he continued as he eased her into a sitting position and then into one of the breakfast area chairs.
    “I’m so sorry,” Claire said once more. “How dreadfully silly of me.” She rubbed at her face with trembling hands, and although some color had returned to her cheeks, she remained unnaturally pale.
    Kincaid pulled a chair away from the table and sat facing her. “I didn’t frighten you with that, did I?” he asked, gesturing towards the hammer which he’d placed carefully on the nearby countertop. He’d rubbed absently at the cobwebs in his hair, and now a chestnut lock fell in a comma on his forehead. With one eyebrow raised in concern, he looked deceptively, dangerously innocent, and Gemma found herself feeling sorry for Claire Gilbert. “It’s only the old hammer from your garden shed. A bit the worse from neglect, I’m afraid,” he added with a rueful smile, brushing at the sleeves of his jacket again.
    “You don’t think... that’s what Alastair...” Claire shivered and hugged herself.
    “From the layer of dust I’d say it had been months since anyone touched that hammer, but we’ll need to run some tests just to be sure.”
    Claire closed her eyes and took a breath, exhaling slowly. Tears began to slip beneath her closed lids as she spoke. “It did frighten me. I don’t know why. Last night they asked me over and over if I knew what might have been used, if there was anything missing, but I couldn’t think. The garden shed never even occurred to me....”
    Having seen her maintain her control when almost incoherent with shock and exhaustion, Gemma felt surprised at Claire’s distress, yet thought she understood. Even though she had dealt with the bloody aftermath, Claire hadn’t wanted to imagine what had happened to her husband. Her mind had avoided it until she confronted a physical reminder. Funny how the mind played tricks on you. “Mrs. Gilbert,” Gemma began, wanting to offer some comfort, “don’t—”
    “Please don’t keep on calling me that,” said Claire with sudden vehemence. “My name is Claire, for God’s sake.” Then she covered her face with her hands, muffling small hiccuping sobs.
    With a warning shake of his head, Will mouthed, “Let her cry.” He went to the fridge, and after a moment’s rummaging, retrieved a loaf of bread, butter, and marmalade. Popping two slices in the toaster, he assembled plate and cutlery, putting things together so efficiently that by the time Claire’s tears had subsided, her belated breakfast was ready.
    “You barely touched your supper last night,” he said accusingly. “And I bet you’ve had nothing but tea this morning.” Without waiting for her answer, he went on. “You can’t go on this way and expect to cope, now can you?” As he spoke he spread the butter and marmalade, then handed Claire a slice of toast.
    Obediently, she took a small bite. Will sat beside her, watching with such concentration that Gemma could almost hear him urging Claire to chew and swallow, chew and swallow.
    After a moment, Kincaid caught Gemma’s eye and motioned towards the garden. She followed a pace behind him through the narrow mudroom, careful not to bump against him, determined not to notice the faint smell of his soap, his aftershave, his skin. But she couldn’t help seeing that his hair needed cutting—he’d forgotten, as he often did, and it was beginning to creep over the edge of his collar in the back.
    A wave of irrational anger swept through her, as if those wayward hairs had deliberately meant to offend her. When they reached the garden, she pounced on the first unrelated grievance that came to mind. “Did you have